


The Longest Night

by Progomphus



Series: Green-Bean's Journey [2]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29144676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Progomphus/pseuds/Progomphus
Summary: It is a dark time for the fleet.  Despite a surprising victory at a Cylon Fueling Station two weeks prior, supplies and morale remain low.  The discovery of Kobol, mankind’s ancient home, has led to a political fight between the civilian government and the military that threatens to permanently tear the fleet apart.Spera Harris, a civilian nurse, is finishing her three-day rotation on the Battlestar Galactica when all hell breaks loose.  In short order the President is arrested, the fleet is lost, and she is assigned to a dangerous search and rescue mission in the upcoming battle. Confronted with the reality of combat, Spera must conquer her fears and trust that her new crewmates will keep her alive.This story is a sequel to my previous work, Escape to Ragnar.  It is set in season two.
Series: Green-Bean's Journey [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139147





	1. Prologue

Prologue

  
The Cylons were built by man. They rebelled. After a long war, they won their independence. Free of their masters, the Cylons disappeared into the night sky, but they didn’t forget.  
Forty years later, they returned and annihilated their creators in a blinding surprise attack. The Cylons were without mercy. In a few hours, a thriving society of forty-nine billion souls spanning twelve planets was reduced to sixty thousand desperate survivors.  
Laura Roslin, the newly ascended President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, sent teams of daring pilots across the colonies to rescue the few survivors not caught in the fiery holocaust. Hunted relentlessly by their unyielding foe, the rag-tag fleet is protected by the last known surviving warship, the Battlestar Galactica. Together, bound by desperation and faith, the fleet forges a new path, seeking sanctuary on a sacred world known only in myth. A planet called Earth.


	2. A Sinister Twilight

_**Freighter Bill Thurston-12: 51 Days after the fall.** _

Parah sat in the center chair of the massive freighter, waiting. Waiting for what, he had no idea. He just knew that whatever happened next wouldn’t be good. The fleet had been hiding in the outer edge of this unremarkable star system for three days. There had been no contact with the Cylons for over a week. The crew had used the short pause to relax and to effect minor repairs to the ship. Sure, supplies were dwindling, and food rations were likely to be cut soon, but the Galactica had been launching Raptors on what he could only assume were survey missions at an unprecedented rate. So why did he, and what seemed like most of the crew, feel so uneasy? It was as if this brief calm was too good to last, and that a very heavy shoe was about to fall upon them.

“Hey Chief, check this out. Galactica just launched three Raptors; maybe they found something,” the helmsman paused a moment. Grinning slightly, he quickly added, “I could use some good news.” His fingers danced across the keyboard as he brought the DRADIS returns to the main screen.

Parah studied the viewer in front of him, his brow furrowing as he examined the Raptors heading out from the Galactica. “The hell are they doing?” he said aloud. In addition to the Raptors, which were approaching Colonial-One; he also noticed that three of the sentry Vipers had shifted their course and were now also heading towards Colonial-One. He looked at the three Vipers more carefully, no, he corrected himself; they weren’t heading towards Colonial-One. Their new course would bring them between the President’s ship and the rest of the fleet. He studied the display for a minute longer in a futile attempt to divine the military’s intentions. His ruminations complete, he turned his attention away from the screen, only to find the rest of the bridge crew watching him intently. He looked over at the helmsman, the levity the young pilot felt earlier now replaced with confusion. 

“I don’t think so, Jim.” Parah sighed briefly and reached down to pick up the phone attached to his seat. 

“What’s up Parah?” crackled dryly through the receiver as the Captain picked up the line.

“Something’s going on Rebecca, you should probably get up here,” he answered quickly. 

“Care to be a little more specific?” she quipped sarcastically.

“Not really, but something is happening,” he answered cautiously. The Captain was a direct woman, and he knew that she would not appreciate his vague response.

Rebecca paused at his evasiveness, Parah was not typically reticent, in fact, he was if nothing else an opinionated blow-hard that she had been forced to tolerate the last two years. “Alright, I’m on my way. But for Frack’s sake, have something to show me.”

“Roger that,” Parah answered soberly before hanging up the phone. He clasped his hands together for a moment as he thought about what to do next. He turned to the navigation station, “Ms. Rosario, let’s look over the com’s, specifically, any wireless transmissions to or from Galactica.” A moment later Parah was pouring over the com activity logs and DRADIS scans within the fleet. 

A metallic thud rang out from the rear of the compartment, signaling the opening of the heavy hatch. Rebecca paused as she entered the bridge, quietly surveying the control center as she stood just inside the threshold, forcibly holding the door back from falling closed. She focused her attention on her Chief Mate, “What’s this about Parah?” she called out gruffly.

Parah blanched involuntarily at his Captain’s challenge. “Galactica’s taken position alongside Colonial-One, the Combat Air Patrol (C.A.P.) has isolated her from the rest of the fleet, and three Raptors are on an intercept course,” he reported bluntly. He held up a solitary sheet of paper for her attention, “We had heavy Wireless transmissions between Galactica and Colonial-One up to five minutes ago. Galactica has been jamming all wireless signals to and from Colonial-One since. Wireless bands between the Galactica and C.A.P. are highly active, the three Raptors heading towards Colonial-One are maintaining wireless silence.”

Focused on Parah’s report, Rebecca headed straight for her command chair, jumping in surprise as the hatch which she had forgotten about slammed closed with a booming clap behind her. She took the com-log from him and quickly scanned it before turning her attention to the DRADIS screen. 

“Wireless message from Galactica,” the navigator called out.

“Well, this should be good,” she responded quietly. Shaking her head in frustration, she shifted her focus to the navigator, “What is it?” she asked impatiently.

“Not much, ma’am. Just a course correction from their navigation team,” responded the young woman.

 _“_ Display the new course on the forward screen, please,” Rebecca answered with a slight wariness. The Captain leaned forward in anticipation, studying the screen as data points appeared pell-mell across the viewer indicating the current position and tracks of the myriad ships in the fleet. Rebecca studied the details on the screen, carefully noting how the entire fleet was being herded away from the Galactica and Colonial-One. The data corroborated the conclusion her gut had determined moments earlier. Overcome with a sense of dread that she hadn’t felt since the initial attack, Rebecca turned to face Parah, somewhat relieved to see that his eyes showed the same concern that she felt. 

“Orders, ma’am?” the navigator called out hesitantly.

Rebecca shifted her attention to her charge. “Right,” she paused, “Naomi, update our course to match Galactica’s navigation corrections.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Naomi replied as her fingers danced across the keyboard, inputting the necessary changes. The young navigator turned her attention to the officer sitting next to her; “Helm, course update has been verified, turn five degrees starboard, ten degrees up angle, maintain speed.”

The helmsman grunted an acknowledgment as he brought the lumbering ship to its new heading. “Turn complete, Captain.”

Rebecca remained in her seat, watching the ships of the fleet distancing themselves from the President’s ship. After a few moments, she switched her attention to the three Raptors heading towards Colonial-One. “Eris,” she mumbled under her breath. “Parah, it’s a gods-damned coup,” she called out between clenched teeth.

“You're jumping the gun, Rebecca,” he responded unconvincingly.

She fixed a skeptical look at him before stepping forward to the screen. “Think so, huh?” she retorted sarcastically.

He stepped up next to her, carefully studying the screen, “Nothin’ we can do from here,” he stated quietly. “Let’s just wait and see what happens,” he offered with a sense of futility.

Rebecca grunted in assent as she returned to her station before sitting down heavily into the cushioned black vinyl seat. She activated the monitor attached to her chair, her fingers instinctively tapping across it, commanding the computers to tighten the sensor focus on Colonial-One.

The bridge felt like a tomb; the crew, paralyzed, silently watched the signals from the three Raptors close with the President’s ship, before finally merging with Colonial-One as they attached to the hull.

**_Colonial-One. Deck-One, Starboard Airlock_ **

Captain Lee “Apollo” Adama watched from inside the scout ship as the squad of six marines exploded into the empty corridor of the President’s ship. He waited only a moment for the squad leader, Corporal Hollis, to present the all-clear signal before joining the heavily armed soldiers. Colonel Tigh followed him through the now ruined airlock a few seconds later, signaling impatiently for the marine team to close ranks.

His eyes were hard and sharp; they focused on the Captain momentarily, quickly sizing him up. His lips curled in anticipation of ordering the team forward, but instead, the radio fastened to his waistband squawked loudly for his attention.

“This is Team-Two, cockpit is secure,” the baritone voice of the ranking Marine, Lieutenant Terry “Gunny” Burrel, emerged through the small speaker.

The Colonel answered quickly, his voice taut with anticipation, “Gunny, keep two of your men there; have the rest secure Cargo Bays three and four. I don’t want any noise from the civilians; make sure they know we’re not here for them,” the Colonel answered quickly, his voice taut.

“Yes, sir; Gunny out,” the lieutenant responded

Colonel Tigh pressed the transmit button a moment later. “Team-Three, report?” he barked.

“This is Hadrian,” a rough-sounding woman answered, “We’re 45 seconds from the engine room, no resistance so far.”

“Get it done, Sergeant,” he demanded into the transmitter.

“Aye, sir,” she replied, the exertion in her voice clear from double-timing through the corridor.

Colonel Tigh broke the connection and cursed quietly. “Corporal Hollis; lead the way,” he called out cavalierly.

The young warrior turned to his soldiers, squaring his shoulders as he did, “Marines, weapons on the ready, on me, move out!” he ordered. 

Lee followed the team of marines as they jogged through the empty corridor. Behind him, Specialist Figurski began repairing the airlocks that the assault team had just cut through. Within a few moments, they were passing the very spot where the President had taken the Oath of Ascension after the first attack, two months earlier. The sudden epiphany struck him like a blow to the head, _‘This is wrong!’_ he realized. 

His mind spun ferociously, he was trying to both solve his growing inner conflict and to suppress the convictions and morals that he knew were right simultaneously. Paralyzed, he tried to focus on the sound of his heavy boots crashing along the narrow corridor, but instead, all he heard was white noise. By the time that his team had reached the final compartment, he had made his decision, he had to stop this. The marine team gathered at the bulkhead; on the other side the President, her guards, the staff, and the press waited for them. 

The momentary pause left Lee with a chance to collect his thoughts, his mind slowed, and he began to coolly analyze his current predicament. It was too late to stop the coup, he realized. Colonel Tigh’s pride and his perceived slights from the President had already whipped him into a fervor. From the look in his eyes, Lee knew that the Colonel was relishing the chance “to put that glorified schoolteacher in her place.” With a quiet sigh, Lee determined that the only plan was to let the boarding party take the President into custody, and then after tempers had cooled, to negotiate a peace between her and his father.

Colonel Tigh turned to Lee at the sound of the Captain’s despondent sigh. “You gotta problem, Captain?” he chided the younger officer.

Lee looked up at his superior, “Yeah, I do,” he replied calmly.

Tigh’s eyes hardened, “We don’t have time for problems, Captain. You will carry out my orders. Is that understood?”

Lee continued to stare at the Colonel, “Yes, sir,” he answered.

Tigh held his gaze for a few seconds before pulling the radio to his lips, “Team-Three, report.”

Sergeant Hadrian’s responded at once, “This is Team-Three, we’re in the engine room, sub-light and F.T.L. drives are secured.” 

“Very good, Sergeant, hold position,” he replied with restrained anticipation. He turned his attention to the lead marine and growled, “Corporal Hollis, take us in.”

“Aye, sir,” he answered. “Marines, ready,” he commanded.

The marines snapped to attention, each quickly readjusting his or her grip on their weapon.

“Parker,” he called out, fixing his gaze on the Private nearest the now partially disassembled wall panel. “Open the door.”

“Aye, sir,” Parker answered, and with the lightest of touches, he brought the two live wires against each other, instantly disengaging the lock on the bulkhead before them.

One of the marines stepped forward and threw the doors open with a hard shove. The rest of the team stormed forward into the compartment, and just as quickly came to a sudden stop, their assault rifles trained on the President’s security detail, whom with pistols drawn, had barricaded themselves in front of their leader. 

Lee’s mind went numb as he watched the armed groups stare each other down. _'This isn’t going to end well,’_ he thought darkly. 

Tigh was speaking, but Lee wasn’t listening to him, instead, he focused on the crowd, quickly counting the number of security guards, members of the press, the President’s staff, and other random civilians present. He instinctively began to calculate who and how many would die if hostilities broke out. Lastly, he noted exactly where the President was standing in the group; and quickly determined that she most certainly would not survive if shots were fired. 

The President was speaking now, but again, her words weren’t important. He looked at her carefully first, then at her security detail, their postures were rigid, their faces tense, it was clear that they had no intention of submitting. In that instant, Lee knew that the President was going to die, and he had to act. Without thinking, he drew his weapon and shoved it into Colonel Tigh’s temple. He was yelling, barking orders to his superior, screaming at him and the Marines to stand down. All he needed was for one marine to yield, and the others would follow. Any second now and he would win. 

The President was speaking, again he did not hear the words, but he felt their meaning. She was surrendering, a moment later he watched her security detail lowering their weapons. Still, in the fog of adrenaline, reality only began to set in as he felt his hands being cuffed behind him. Moments later one of the marines turned him back towards the corridor and shoved him from behind, leading him out of the compartment and back to the Raptor waiting to return them to the Galactica.

Lieutenant Burrel waited for Lee and the arresting party by the airlock with a disturbed expression on his face. He reached down to remove the Captain’s bindings as he approached but was cut off by Corporal Hollis.

“Colonel wants those left on, Lieutenant,” he said quietly.

“Right,” Gunny responded with a resigned tone. He took Lee by the shoulder and gently led him through the airlock and into the waiting Raptor.

Lee sat down on the narrow bench and waited silently as Gunny tightened the restraints. He closed his eyes, inaudibly grunting as his body was pulled left, then right, and down by the force of the safety straps.

“Have the worlds gone mad?” Gunny asked thoughtfully.

Lee opened his eyes to find the imposing marine staring down at him. “No, Gunny. The worlds haven't gone mad, they're gone...” he answered despondently.

Gunny sat heavily next to him, easily taking enough space on the bench for two people. “Still,” he offered. “First Starbuck, stealing the Raider; your father, arresting the President; and now you. Holding a gun to Tigh's head. This is crazy!”

Lee let Gunny's words fall without responding. He closed his eyes again, cursing to himself. _'How am I going to Un-Frack this?'_ he thought bitterly.

**_Freighter Bill Thurston-12; Bridge_ **

The bridge crew had remained rooted to their stations since the Raptors had docked onto Colonial-One twenty minutes earlier. They shared hushed glances, confirming their fears while they waited for any hint of what was transpiring between the President's ship and the Galactica. At first, there was hope that the Quorum, headquartered on the luxury liner Cloud-Nine, would speak out and put an end to this reckless power-play. But sadly, they had remained as cowed as the rest of the fleet; silently complicit in the actions taken by the military.

Rebecca was struggling with the fleet's inaction. Every few minutes she would grip the armrests of her chair tightly, fighting the urge to rise-up and prowl the cramped compartment in frustration. She knew she was near her limit and if the Quorum did not do something soon, she would. Rebecca looked at the chronometer for what had to be the 45th time.

“DRADIS contact! FTL emergence, range 3-5-0 and closing,” Benson called out suddenly.   
Parah turned towards the helmsman, impatiently waiting for a more detailed report.

Rebecca beat him to the punch, “Come on, Jim” she chided “course, speed, identity. Now!”

"Yes, Ma'am.” Jim Benson could feel the crew's eyes burning into his back as he manipulated the controls on his board. He had served as an engine technician on the Argentum Bay before the Cylon attack. Now, nearly two months after the destruction of their homeworlds, he had been thrust into this new role as helmsman. A job he felt that he was not ready for. His mind blanked as he tried to answer all three questions at once. 

_'John should be here, not me!'_ his mind cried out as he thought of the lead pilot. 

But the realization that John wasn't there gave him the purchase he needed to assert control over his emotions. Now centered, he began methodically analyzing the sensor data. Thirty seconds later he had the answers that his captain needed.

“Captain, incoming ship matches a Raptor that jumped out of the system 47 minutes ago. Its bearing is 05 Carom 24 and is on a direct course for the Galactica, speed is constant at 525.”

"Thank you, Jim. Be sure to continue tracking that Raptor,” Rebecca said in as neutral of a tone as possible. She had watched with concern as the ship's new Assistant Helmsman, had started to panic. Overall, she was satisfied with how quickly he had recovered and provided her with the correct analysis. “Believe it or not, you'll be a pro at this in no time,” she offered encouragingly.

He turned to her with palpable relief on his face, “Thanks, ma'am.”

Rebecca leaned back into her seat and looked over at her Chief-Mate, who had an amused smile on his face. Satisfied that some of the tension had been broken by Jim's success, she tried to relax and to ignore everything outside of the bridge. 

**_Cylon Basestar J529 – Near Kobol Star System, Prolmar Sector_ **

Alexei’s Basestar had been hunting the refugees since the onset of the war. It had been exhilarating at first; with battles happening almost every day. But over the last few weeks, he had become increasingly frustrated as the once regular contacts had diminished. To find their elusive prey, the Cylons had started dispatching pickets to systems that had the precious materials needed by the desperate caravan of refugees. Even with this effort, there had been no signs of their quarry at first. Inevitably, the collective was beginning to worry that they might have lost their foe completely.

Fifteen days ago, the Colonials finally appeared: destroying a tylium mine and refinery station in a bold surprise attack. They left just as quickly, slipping into the black leaving nary a clue as to where they came from or were headed. Despite this, Alexei Canoy felt hopeful today. He and his brothers, all belonging to the second model of humanoid Cylons, were devoted followers of the One True God, and the signs that he found in the stream recently were encouraging.

Yesterday, a Raider recon had rediscovered the planet Kobol, the birthplace of mankind. Upon the return to its carrier, the analyzed data revealed the tell-tale radiation signature from a recent hyperspace jump. They immediately dispatched a Basestar to lie in wait for the Colonials' return. Within hours, a squadron of three Raptors arrived; the Basestar quickly destroyed one Raptor, trapped a second on the surface, and allowed the third to scurry back to the Galactica. Alexei knew the Colonials would return to rescue their trapped soldiers. Humans were sentimental beings, and that weakness would be their undoing, he mused. Satisfied, he relaxed as he basked in the knowledge that the final confrontation was just over the horizon. 

His reverie, however, was interrupted by an unexpected message from the Basestar waiting in orbit of Kobol. His eyes widened in shock as he absorbed the initial transmission.

**Basestar J315 destroyed.**

Alexei dove into the stream to get more information. He quickly discovered that the Colonials had sent a single Raptor, equipped with a stolen Cylon transponder and armed with a nuclear weapon with which to destroy the Basestar over Kobol. Questions bubbled over each other like a flooded brook. _‘How did the Colonials get the transponder? And why, upon determining that the transponder was stolen, did the Basestar allow it to land, much less deploy its deadly cargo?’_ He puzzled over the various dispatches from the now destroyed Basestar, trying to figure out how the Colonials had accomplished such an improbable victory. 

It only took him a few moments to find the keystone, but when he did, he was able to appreciate the completed tapestry of the Basestar’s final minutes. To his amazement, the Basestar discovered that the Colonial Raptor had been piloted by a Cylon sleeper agent, a Number Eight who had been assigned to the Galactica before the Cylons return to their homeworlds. Upon hacking the transponder, the Basestar determined the navigational history of the Raptor but was unable to disarm the Nuclear Warhead. Unwilling to trust the navigational records stored in the transponder the Basestar allowed the Raptor’s crew to complete their mission, but not before taking two significant actions. The first was to activate a tracking application on the stolen transponder which would automatically transmit the destination of the Raptor after leaving Kobol to the collective. Alexei smiled with malice as he absorbed the import of the second action. Upon docking with the Basestar, the hybrid integrated with the agent and successfully initiated an assassination protocol hidden within her sub-conscious programming. Moments later the Basestar was consumed in a nuclear implosion, sacrificing itself and its crew, secure with the knowledge that the escaping Raptor would lead the rest of the Cylons to the ragtag fugitive fleet that it was trying to protect.

Not content to simply wait, Alexei sent the report to the remaining Basestars in their squadron before dispatching additional Raiders to scout nearby systems. His tasks complete, Alexei immersed himself into the stream, becoming one with the sensors as he and the Basestar searched for the Colonial Fleet. 

The sense of time while in the stream is subjective; when one is focused seconds can be dragged over a period of what seems like hours, and when floating, as he liked to describe it, the opposite was true. Consequently, Alexei did not know or care, how long he had been in the stream when a particularly bright data packet caught his attention. He knew immediately that this was the message from the stolen transponder that he had been searching for. With a feral smile, he snatched the transmission, recalled the raiders, and transmitted the Colonials location to the rest of the collective.

He emerged from the stream into the actual world and instinctively reached forward, grabbing the brace at his station for support. Less than a minute later he felt the stomach-turning sensation caused by a Faster-Than-Light jump overtake him as the Basestar transited to meet and destroy their enemies.

**_Freighter Bill Thurston-12_ **

Rebecca sat at her station, glowering blankly through the forward windows in frustration. The Raptors had left Colonial-One and returned to the Galactica over fifteen minutes ago. The wireless channels, no longer scrambled, remained eerily silent as the survivors from the Cylon annihilation were careful not to draw unnecessary attention. She checked the DRADIS display for no other reason than to pass the time. Furthering her aggravation, she noted that the ships of the fleet had returned to their standard formation. Colonial-One was safely tucked in the middle of the pack of unassuming starships, the Combat Air Patrol was casually orbiting the fleet, and the Galactica had returned to its typical high forward position, protecting its vulnerable charges along their path. The appearance of the routine was so complete, that had Parah not called for her earlier she would never have known that Commander Adama had just decapitated the civilian government. They had better say something soon, or it’s going to be trouble, she thought darkly.

The shrill alarm of the DRADIS computer sounded through the small compartment, catching everyone’s attention. Rebecca turned to John Evans, the lead pilot who had returned during the quiet period after the “excitement” from earlier.

“Captain,” he called out, “One Cylon Basestar; distance is 5,000; bearing 4-8-7 carom 0-1-5.”

She looked at the DRADIS returns and grimaced, the Basestar was directly in front of them. Someone or thing must have told the Cylons exactly where the fleet had been hiding. She stamped down her hesitation instantly, “Marel, check to make sure we have the latest emergency coordinates and load them into the jump computer now.”

“Yes, ma’am” he replied immediately. His fingers danced across his station as he double-checked and loaded the destination into the computer.

“Galactica’s flak guns have opened up and they are recalling the C.A.P.” Parah called out.

“Marel?” she called out.

“Emergency Jump Coordinates loaded ma’am, waiting on Galactica.”

She picked up the phone, “All hands, prepare for immediate FTL Jump.”

“Message from Galactica, ‘All ships proceed to Emergency Jump Coordinates Alpha,’” he called out a moment later.

“You heard them.” Rebecca responded, “Marel, jump the ship.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “FTL jump commencing in 3, 2, 1.”


	3. Lost in the Midnight Fog

**_Battlestar Galactica, Sick-Bay_ **

Spera grimaced as she studied the hand of cards that appeared on the computer monitor. Aggravated with the shoddy hand that she had been dealt, she turned her attention to the wall clock instead. It seemed like her current shift, the last shift for her three-day Galactica rotation was never going to end. To be fair, she looked forward to the regular rotations away from her “home” on the freighter Bill Thurston-12. Trips to the Galactica, or any other ship in the fleet, provided her a change in scenery, opportunities to socialize with new friends, and sometimes, better food and nicer quarters. But, today had been particularly monotonous and she was ready to return to the familiarity of her quarters and her shipmates, whom she was starting to think of as family.

She shuddered as the harsh claxons rang, alerting the crew to yet another Cylon attack. “Would it ever end? Or would this be humanity’s final stand? Snuffed out with barely a whimper in the vacuum of uncharted space,” she wondered in a spate of fear and remorse.

A man’s voice called out from overhead, announcing the fleet’s impending escape. Gripping the hard-plastic seat tightly, she bent over and placed her head between her legs as she waited for the effects of the Faster-Than-Light jump to wash over her.

Spera uncoiled, both physically and emotionally as she recovered from the hyperspace transit. She hated FTL jumps and had sworn that when her tour on the BT-12 was finished, she would transfer to a facility back home on Picon. But those plans were changed forever the day that the Cylons returned. Out of habit, she looked at the clock yet again, cursing slightly as she counted the hours left in her shift. She wasn’t sure if her frustration was due to the humdrum tasks of the last several days or if after two months the constant stress of the nightmare flight from their home-worlds had finally reached a breaking point.

Her self-introspection was dashed as a team of marines and medics suddenly burst through the double doors in a chaotic frenzy of panic and confusion. Nurse Ishay rushed past her, meeting the marines who were escorting a nameless officer on the gurney; wordlessly ushering them into one of the surgical units down the corridor.

A pall settled throughout Sick-Bay as the confusion from moments earlier began to permeate into the corridor. Already there were rumors, and within minutes the gossip mill had “unofficially” confirmed that the man on the stretcher was Commander Adama. Spera was just settling herself when Colonel Tigh crashed through the doors. The disquieting rumors seemed to be confirmed as he hurriedly searched for the Head-Nurse. He found her moments later tending to the Commander and immediately barged into the busy operating room. Spera could see into the room from her seat and she watched as the Colonel pressed into her, demanding information. Clearly stunned, Nurse Ishay backed away to get some personal space from the overbearing Executive Officer. Spera couldn’t hear the conversation between the two; but hushed voices aside, she could see the desperation and fear in them both as they discussed the Commander’s situation. The conversation between the two was contentious and short. There was a final protest from the nurse which was followed by an unheard directive from the Colonel. Accepting defeat, Nurse Ishay closed her eyes and bowed her head. Moments later, Colonel Tigh exited the operating room, closing the door behind him. 

Reluctantly, Spera got out of her seat and listlessly made her way to a group of nurses, techs, and other staff loosely congregating in a far corner of Sick-Bay. She stood near the periphery of the group, silently hanging at the edge, refusing to participate in the anonymous gossip that had overtaken the compartment. Spera knew not to trust the scuttlebutt that was being bandied about between the medical staff, but it was hard to ignore. Already there were stories that the Commander had been shot by a trusted pilot and that he was not expected to survive. Even worse, there were rumors that the fleet had been lost and that the Galactica was alone. This rumor, she refused to acknowledge. 

**_Freighter BT-12. Emergency Rally Coordinates_ **

Rebecca remained stone-faced; her eyes were fixated on the DRADIS returns displayed on the fore viewscreen. Her frustration got the better of her and without thinking she suddenly demanded “Time?” 

“Plus-twenty minutes and thirty-five seconds,” Marel answered despondently.

Rebecca closed her eyes and took a long slow breath in a vain effort to clear her mind. Not that it mattered, she thought darkly. The fleet had settled into a routine since the fall of their home-worlds. The Cylons would appear, the Galactica would hold off the attackers while they jumped to safety, and then the Galactica would meet them at the rally point. They had performed this maneuver hundreds of times in the last fifty-one days. Only this time, the Galactica hadn’t returned. The absence of the fleet’s sole protector weighed on the crew like an anchor, and if left unchecked, it threatened to sink their already floundering morale. 

Parah called out “Marel, have you confirmed that we jumped to the correct coordinates?”

Marel’s back stiffened and he clenched his jaws in aggravation. In a rare show of defiance, he turned to face the Chief Mate at the unintended slight. “With all due respect, sir. Do you really think that the entire fleet, save one, jumped to the same ‘wrong coordinates?’” he spat bitterly.

To Rebecca’s surprise, Parah accepted Marel’s insolent response with an audible sign of resignation. Rebecca watched Marel quietly as he turned back to his station. His shoulders were drawn inwards as he distractedly studied his board and slowly regained his composure. Unsure what to do next Marel began mindlessly checking and recalibrating the DRADIS array. Marel was outwardly pleasant, quiet, and helpful; but deep down she knew that he held on to insults and grudges; which simmered and grew until finally, if not addressed would erupt in a spectacular fit of anger. She studied him now, trying to determine if he was close to breaking. 

“Marel,” she called out just loud enough to get his attention, “Meet me at the plotting table.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered back quizzically.

Rebecca gingerly climbed out of her seat and headed to the plotting table at the aft end of the compartment. Once there, she began pulling the communication records from the Galactica, quickly scanning the log for navigation updates. By the time Marel arrived at the table, Rebecca had finished organizing the com-logs by type and date.

“Frack,” she swore quietly, staring at the spreadsheet in front of her. 

“Notice anything odd about the Emergency Rally Coordinates that we jumped to?” she asked her navigator quietly.

“Besides the fact that they were over two days old, no ma’am,” he answered with a little angst.

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Rebecca paused a second before finishing her thought, “The jump coordinates are updated every 24 hours,” she stated bluntly. 

Marel started at the screen, his mind freezing, fearing that he would be blamed for the lost warship. “I swear, those are the latest coordinates we had,” he stammered nervously.

“Marel, stop it.” Rebecca paused so that she could turn her full attention to him. She tried to hide her frustration from her timid navigator, and as evenly as she could she responded in barely a whisper, “I already checked the log. Galactica must have revised the jump point, but never sent the updated coordinates to the rest of the fleet.”

“Shit,” he responded, “How are we gonna find them?” he asked.

“Well, you’re the navigator,” she responded sarcastically.

“Captain?” he answered, “You can’t put all of this…”

“Marel, calm down,” she responded kiddingly. Her expression became glum as she contemplated their current situation; “We’ll find them, or better yet, they’ll find us.”

“So, we just sit here and wait?” he asked. 

“No, we are going to try and figure out where they went,” she answered confidently. “Now,” she paused thinking, “Bring up a map of our last fifteen jumps and highlight our current position.”

She waited as he began typing his inquiries into the navigation computer. The table below them cleared and the display was quickly replaced by an expansive view of the surrounding regions of the Prolmar Sector that they were traveling through. Within a few minutes, a series of yellow dots connected by a thin line appeared which detailed their previous fifteen jump positions, the line ended with a silver dot that marked their current position. She waited a few more moments for the computer to continue populating the map with reference data. 

She clapped her hands together with a flourish and with feigned excitement called out, “Okay, let’s take a look.”

The two officers bent over the table and began taking notes of the locations of their previous jumps and the locations of notable stellar objects.

They had been at the table for over thirty minutes when Parah quietly approached from the engineering console at the rear of the compartment. Seeing that they were deep in conversation and furiously scribbling notes on the screen below, Parah cautiously asked “Any luck?” he asked cautiously.

Rebecca looked up slowly from the table. “No, there’s just too many variables and our Nav-Computer doesn’t have the power to determine where they went when compared to our current location.” 

Parah stood quietly and chewed the inside of his left cheek while he processed her answer. After a moment, and noticing that both Rebecca and Marel were waiting on him, he responded thoughtfully, “I wonder if the Celestra would have better luck? It’s a deep space exploration vessel after all.”

“Damn, your right!” Rebecca exclaimed at his revelation. “Marel, get them on the horn and see if they can’t track down our errant Battlestar.”

Already heading back to his station, Marel called back, “On it, ma’am.” 

**_Battlestar Galactica; one hour after the emergency jump._ **

Rumors were the one thing that traveled near the speed of light on board a ship, Derek reasoned. Judging by the urgency with which he was ordered to report to Colonel Tigh’s office he surmised that at least some of the tales circulating must be true. He turned left at the junction, quickly tugging on his uniform in a vain attempt to straighten it as he made his way down the narrow corridor. Twenty meters later Derek found himself standing in front of three determined marines blocking a non-descript hatch.p>

“I’m here to see the X.O.,” he stated simply.

"I.D.?” the center guard replied simply.

With a snort, Derek reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his Colonial Fleet I.D. which he handed to the guard.

The guard inserted the I.D. into a portable reader before reaching towards Derek with the device. Leaning forward, Derek placed his thumb on the I.D. sensor on the front of the unit. The two waited in awkward silence as the machine compared Derek’s thumbprint to the data in the card. A few moments later the reader chirped, signaling that it was finished, and the guard pulled the device back to read the results. Derek reached forward to take his I.D. card but instead found the Marine carefully comparing his face to the photo on the card. Apparently satisfied, the stoic guard turned away from him and activated a speaker on the wall next to the door.

“Colonel Tigh,” he called into the microphone, “Captain Robinaux hear to see you.”

"Send him in,” Colonel Tigh’s sharp voice barked in response a moment later. 

Derek waited as the lead guard nodded to the guard on his left, who silently stepped forward and opened the heavy door.

“Thank you, Private,” Derek stated directly before passing through the threshold and into the Colonel’s office.

Derek stepped into the office and waited as the Marine closed the hatch behind him. 

“Come in, Captain.”

Derek made his way across the brightly lit and austere cabin. One wall had a large gray pegboard with clipboards and plastic document holders haphazardly hung along its surface. The remaining walls were bare, except for an old framed Viper Squadron identification banner, a similarly framed Colonial Flag, and a non-descript fleet-issued manual clock. The Colonel was standing behind an old and scratched metal desk, an opened bottle of Ambrosia sitting on top. The two-thirds full bottle was flanked by two tumblers; one was empty, the other, by Derek’s estimate held what looked like two very generous shots worth of the potent liquor. 

“Colonel,” he stated as he reached the desk.

“Have a drink?” his superior offered, though it felt more like a suggestion.

“No thank you, sir. I’m on duty” Derek responded.

"Damn right, Captain,” the obviously inebriated executive officer answered, “Just the same, I’m sure you won’t mind if I have just this one.” The Colonel looked at him seriously before adding, “It’s been a hell of a day.”

“Of course not, sir;” Derek answered easily. The Colonel’s reputation for drinking too excess was well known throughout the ship.

“Good,” Colonel Tigh responded. He picked up the tumbler and tilted it toward Derek in a mock salute. A moment later his face contorted in a pained grimace as he downed the fiery contents in one long gulp. His eyes fixed on Derek as he centered himself, “Sit” he demanded easily.

Derek took the seat across from the desk and waited, silently dreading the briefing that was about to begin. To his mild surprise, the Colonel didn’t sit down, but instead leaned over the desk, his arms extending as braces to keep him from falling forward. Derek looked up, meeting the gaze of the executive officer, who was looming over him.

He began without preamble, his voice harsh and emotional, and Derek couldn’t help but notice small amounts of spit that came out as he unburdened himself. “The Commander is alive and there is no fracking chance that we are going to let him die,” he spat venomously. “Now you tell anyone who says different to shut their yap!” He paused to glare fiercely at Derek, “Is that clear, Captain?!”

“Yes, sir;” Derek affirmed. He hoped that the Colonel was being honest with him, but Tigh’s bluster led him to suspect that the Commander’s life hung by a much more tenuous thread than he was willing to admit. 

In short order, the Colonel confirmed the rumors that the fleet had been lost, that Boomer was a Cylon and had shot the Commander, and that Lee had been arrested for mutiny.

“Captain Robinaux, you’re the C.A.G. now,” Tigh stated brusquely. 

Shaken to his core, Derek merely stared slack-jawed at his superior as he processed the grave news. Finally composing himself, Derek responded cautiously, “What are your orders, sir?”

The Colonel sat down heavily in the chair across from him. “We have to jump back to our previous location so that we can calculate the fleets’ current position. The Cylons are going to be waiting for us, and I need you to lead our Vipers in a protective screen while we crunch the numbers.” He fixed a serious look at the Captain before continuing. “Gaeta says it’ll take about ten minutes to calculate their coordinates and plot the jump.”

Derek sat quietly for a few moments as he contemplated the assignment. “I want Apollo on my team, sir,” he stated resolutely.

“The hell do you want that son-of-a-bitch for?!” he exploded in outrage. “You’re either the C.A.G. or you’re not Captain,” he barked.

Derek schooled his features before responding, “With respect sir, two reasons. One; Lee is a hell of a pilot and I will need everyone if we are going to hold the Cylons off for that long.” He paused long enough for this fact to settle, “Two; Apollo has planned a lot of missions, his experience will catch things that I miss.” 

Tigh closed his eyes, the lines on his face eased slightly by the time they re-opened. His gaze fell upon the senior pilot, “You want Apollo to be the C.A.G., that’s fine,” he muttered quietly. Sighing for effect, he shook his head once slowly in antipathy. “At some point, your gonna have to man-up and take the training wheels off, Green-Bean,” he intoned bitterly.

Derek choked down his aggravation with the Executive Officer, “Yes, sir,” he responded deferentially.

“That will be all, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir,” he answered back.

Derek was passing through the hatch when the Colonel called him back.

“You’ll find Apollo in the brig. I want an Op-Plan by Oh-Nine Thirty.”

Derek stopped and spun to face the Colonel, “Yes, sir.” He turned back and passed through the hatch into the causeway. He strode a few paces and paused again, this time to check his watch. Cursing quietly, Derek broke into an easy jog towards the brig; he only had an hour and a half to plan the mission. 

**_Bill Thurston 12; two hours after the emergency jump._ **

Rebecca groaned at the sound of the phone demanding her attention. She put the ship’s operation reports that she was reading down, rolled off her cot, and gruffly stomped to her desk on the far side of her cabin. “Yes,” she demanded.

“We just got a copy of an operation plan that Cloud-Nine is planning to send fleetwide,” Marel stated, “Thought you’d want to see it,” he added cautiously.

“Who’d you get it from?” she asked.

Marel paused before answering and Rebecca could hear his apprehension before responding. “Ma’am, I don’t even know what ship it came from. Whoever sent it routed it through the comm systems of almost half the fleet.”

“Alright, thanks,” she answered, before abruptly hanging up. Sitting down at her desk, she opened the document, a scowl immediately forming as she began to read it. Her demeanor only deteriorated as she read the report. Had it been a hard copy, she would have crumbled it into a ball and pitched it into the recycler. As she read, she became acutely aware that it was probably better that she couldn’t simply dismiss “Contingency Plan-3” as it had been vaguely named.

With the loss of the President, the Vice-President, and the Galactica, Marshall Bagot, the Quorum Representative from Virgon had declared himself the Acting Head of State. His first act, which he claimed to have developed with the Captains of the fleet, was to scrap President Roslin’s orders with this new operational plan.

President Roslin’s plan was simple, wait for the Galactica to return, after twelve hours if they hadn’t, attempt to determine the warship’s fate, and then as a last resort, set off without their escort. President Roslin understood the vital role of protector that Galactica fulfilled within the fleet, and her well-reasoned plan required both courage and patience. Clearly, Mr. Bagot and his sycophants either lacked these last two necessary attributes or they had forgotten them for political expediency.

Rebecca grabbed the phone at her desk and stabbed the button to connect her to the bridge.

“Bridge,” Marel called through the receiver.

“Marel, contact the Astral Queen.” She paused a moment, “I need to talk to Tom Zarek, now.”

“Will do, ma’am.” Marel answered, “Is this about the plan that I sent you?”

“Yes, and it’s a shitty one at that,” she stated. She was about to end the call but quickly changed her mind. “Eh Marel, belay that. Tell Parah to prep a shuttle, I’m gonna talk to him in person.”

“Got it, Skip,” he paused a second, “I’ll ring you when the shuttle’s ready.”

“No need, I’ll be in the hangar in five minutes.” 

**_Astral Queen; Tom Zarek’s office._ **

Rebecca was anxious as she waited impatiently in the small, dull outer office. The door opened a moment later and Tom Zarek, Qurom member of Sagittaron, a former terrorist and federal prisoner emerged. 

Rebecca stepped forward and took his hand as she reached him. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Zarek.”

"Please, come in, and call me Tom;” he offered warmly. He waited quietly as she followed him inside. 

Rebecca was stunned by the grotesque opulence surrounding her. The office stood in stark contrast to the rest of the ship, a lowly and spartan prisoner transfer vessel that had managed to survive the holocaust. The bulkheads were adorned with beautiful artwork and striking prints from their shared home planet. Centered in the office was a rich and elegant sandal-wood desk, and proudly mounted on the wall behind it was a framed most-wanted poster with his likeness from years earlier when he was on the run from the authorities. When she had composed herself, she sat down in one of the comfortably padded chairs across from him. “We’ve never met, but we have, well had, shared friends,” she started, looking him in the eyes.

He nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment, “Your Hutto’s cousin, correct?” he asked.

“Yes, well second cousin.” she paused, “I’m surprised that you remember.”

He smiled warmly and nodded his head in feigned humility, “Hutto and I spent time together at the Gehenna Federal Correction Facility, he spoke of you on occasion.” He paused for a moment, “And if I remember, you ran a few errands for us as well?” he stated.

Rebecca shuddered as she recalled horror stories that she had heard about the infamous prison on Aerilon. “Only a couple runs, but that was a long time ago.” Rebecca gathered herself, “I’m not here to relive the glory days of years past.” 

“No, I expect not,” he cut her off curtly. His warm smile disappeared. “You’re here to talk about the unauthorized copy of Mr. Bagot’s plan that you received.”

She watched his mouth curl into a predatory smirk. “Well, yes,” she stammered uneasily.

He leaned forward, and opened his hands invitingly, “Why don’t you tell me what you think about Mr. Bagot’s plan, and then I’ll share my thoughts with you,” he offered grandly.

“I don’t think the Galactica was destroyed, and I suspect that you don’t either,” she said quietly.

“Then where do you think it is?” he asked, testing her.

“No idea, but that’s secondary,” she offered. She held up a finger to stop him from interrupting her, “What’s more important, is why they are not with us.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, “Please, enlighten me?” he asked patriarchally.

Rebecca was sure that he already knew why the Galactica had not jumped to the same coordinates. She answered him anyway. “When the Cylons arrived at our last location the Galactica jumped to the time-updated Emergency Rally Coordinates as planned. Unfortunately, they never sent the updated coordinates to the fleet; and thanks to stellar drift we didn’t jump to the same place.”

Tom leaned forward in his chair and gently brought his hands together, resting them on his desk. He looked at her, carefully measuring her. “Hutto, always said you were sharp. Said, ‘I would be wise to get you in the family.’ He was right.” Tom paused for a moment, “Did he ever try to recruit you?” 

Rebecca stared at Tom for a moment, surprised that he brought up the Sagittaron Freedom Movement, a terrorist organization that he had led. “Yes, several times actually,” she answered. “There were others who tried, too. I wanted to go a different direction,” she answered carefully.

“That was probably smart,” he acknowledged, “had you joined up, you probably would have ended up with Hutto and me.” He reached for a glass of water that was on his desk and took a fleeting sip. “Now tell me why Contingency Plan-3 is such a bad idea.”

Rebecca steeled herself, “Mr. Bagot wants us to abandon the Galactica. Without the Galactica to protect us, the Cylons will come and come again, and they will continue to come and pick us apart until there are none of us left. We need to give the Galactica every opportunity to find us, that is what President Roslin’s plan does.”

Tom watched her carefully. He measured the logic of her argument against the emotions that she felt. He gently scratched his chin, “You’re aware that Commander Adama staged a coup against the President?” he asked. From her expression, it was obvious that she knew, and this impressed him even more. “Do you really think that the fleet would be safe under the protection of a military strong-man?” 

Now it was Rebecca’s turn to study Mr. Zarek. “Yes,” she answered coolly. “I’m no fan of the military, but they can at least protect us.” She took a steadying breath, and with a somber tone, she concluded, “Without the Galactica, we have no teeth to fight back with. We have no chance without them.”

A wide smile stretched across Tom’s face. “As it turns out,” he began, “I completely agree with you.”

“So, you can stop this, and get the fleet to stick with President Roslin’s orders?” she asked hopefully.

Tom leaned back in his chair with the demeanor of a newly crowned champion, “Already done. I have spoken with other members of the Qurom and a few ship Captains, yourself among them, and I can assure you that ‘Contingency Plan-3” is dead. We are going to make finding the Galactica our number one priority.”

Rebecca sat there, stunned into silence. It took her a few moments to digest his last statement, “You said that we are going to look for the Galactica?”

“I did. I’ve asked Captain Baukan, to take the Celestra and a few armed shuttles from the Prometheus back to our original coordinates so they can calculate where the Galactica jumped too.” He sighed with disappointment, “Unfortunately, Piers is refusing, he says it’s a suicide mission, and Commander Kronus agrees.” He paused, his demeanor changed to one of hope and challenge. “However, if you agree with me, that we should make the effort, then you could take the Celestra and find the Galactica.”

Rebecca’s blood ran cold at the offer, “He’s right, it is a suicide mission, and we can’t afford to waste the Celestra or her crew that way.” she stated directly. 

Zarek’s smile wilted and his expression returned to one of business. He stood up abruptly and headed towards the hatch. “Thank you for coming to speak with me Captain Davenport, and please feel free to contact my office with any future concerns,” he stated eloquently.

Rebecca got up too. She took his pro-offered hand and looked up at him. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Councilman.” She waited for him to undog the hatch, and then quickly headed out and back to her waiting shuttle.


	4. The Dark Squall

**_Battlestar Galactica, Sick-Bay; two hours after the jump._ **

Spera was tired. Her rounds complete, she was trying to pass the remaining four hours of her shift by reading a trashy novel that she had borrowed from one of the technicians on board. She looked at the clock again, and wondered sullenly; _‘and what happens next?’_ She put the book down and pondered the immediate future.

All of her stuff, what little she had left, was on the BT-12. She suspected that she would get to keep the temporary quarters on the Galactica. She didn’t like her rack here, it was small, grimy, dark, and somehow, even less comfortable than her cabin on her home ship. _‘Home,’_ she thought. It made her sad to accept her new reality, but that Gods-Awful freighter was now her home, and the crew was her family. And now, they were gone too. _‘Fracking Cylons,’_ she lamented. She turned her face into her elbow as her emotions began to rise and very quietly began to mourn the loss of her new family.

“Excuse me, ma’am” a sonorous voice addressed her.

She looked up at the tall marine standing across from her. “I’m sorry,” she responded meekly, before quickly dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. “Can I help you?”

The soldier paused, his features softening slightly as he looked at her. His eyes moved down to her name tag. “Actually,” he started, “I’m here for you, Nurse Harris.”

“Oh?” she replied. “What do you need?” she asked helpfully.

He smiled slightly; he still was not used to dealing with the casual disposition of the civilians on board. “You’ve been assigned to a S.A.R. mission, ma’am. I’m here to escort you to the pilot’s locker room,” he answered directly.

“A what?” Spera stammered in reply.

“Search and Rescue mission, ma’am.”

Utterly confused, Spera stared at the young dark-skinned man for a moment before answering him. “There must be some mistake, Mr. Venner;” she read carefully from the patch on his uniform. She looked up at him, “I’m in the middle of a shift here,” she stated plainly.

He looked down and sighed in mild annoyance. “There’s no mistake ma’am; if you will come with me.”

“Hold on a second,” she answered, standing up from her station. “Summer,” she called out to the shift manager. “Come here a minute, please.”

A striking blonde-haired nurse turned towards her. “What’cha need, Harris?” she asked bluntly.

Spera hesitated for a second, “This officer says that I’m needed for a search and rescue mission.”

Summer looked at the marine and tried not to laugh at Spera’s confusion. “May I see her orders, Corporal?” she asked sarcastically emphasizing his rank. She took the paperwork and quickly reviewed the orders. “Looks like everything is in order here,” she mumbled without looking up.

“So?” Spera asked cautiously.

“Yup,” Summer answered quickly. “You need to go with Corporal Venner.”

The tall soldier turned his gaze to Spera, “If you’ll come with me, Ms. Harris?” he offered cheerfully.

“I guess so,” she answered tentatively. Spera stepped out of the nurse’s station and began to follow the handsome, definitely-not-an-officer down the corridor.

“Hey Spera, have fun!” Summer called after her sarcastically.

**_Battlestar Galactica, Port Hangar_ **

Spera was following the marine by a few paces as they approached the hangar. Her nerves already ragged, she wilted as they entered the massive aircraft bay. She focused intently on the small of the Corporal’s back as she adjusted to the harsh lights, the deafening racquet, and the chaotic activities surrounding her. 

Spera’s anxiety lessened as they walked through the cavernous space and before long, she began looking over the hangar deck. As Spera explored the compartment she noticed the different craft, the equipment, the brightly dressed crewman seemingly running haphazardly throughout, and at the far corner she saw Captain Robinaux carefully looking over his sleek fighter. Finally, she saw the ship that her escort was leading her to. 

Despite her familiarity with the Raptor scout ship, the thought of flying into combat inside the ungainly and stubby winged ship filled her with dread. Determined to look brave, Spera took a deep breath and silently braced herself in front of the flight crew. Waiting for her at the side of the craft, were three pilots, a young, angry-looking woman, a short and thin white man, and a solidly built dark-skinned man.

“Good luck, ma’am;” her escort called out.

Caught by surprise, she turned to say good-bye but found that he was already heading away from her.

“You our medic?” the woman asked.

Spera stopped in front of the pilots, “Yes, Spera Harris, from the BT-12;” she answered quickly.

“Hamish McCall, call-sign Skulls. You’re a civilian,” the dark-skinned pilot stated, slightly surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Today was supposed to be my last day on the Galactica.” Spera wheeled to face the woman, who had snorted derisively at her misfortune. She was about to confront the ill-mannered officer but instead watched as ‘Skulls’ jabbed his colleague in the side.

The woman turned first to the other pilot in surprise and then to Spera. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean it that, that way;” she stammered. “Racetrack, I’m the pilot, this is Shark, co-pilot, and Skulls is the E.S.O. You ever done this before?”

Spera paused before responding, “A couple training exercises, but never for real. Is that going to be a problem?” She watched the pilots’ school their expressions at her response.

Racetrack considered her question for a moment, before shaking her head. “No, it should be fine;” she answered hesitantly.

Spera looked over at Skulls and could not help but notice the dubious expression on his face. At a loss for words, Spera stood quietly, waiting for direction.

She did not have to wait long. Racetrack clapped her hands together suddenly, “Alright, let’s make sure you have your suit on correctly. Step up and hold your arms over your head.”

Spera put the helmet on the deck and did as she was told. She waited nervously as the young woman circled her, tugging at the sleeves, zippers, and straps that adorned the awkward flight suit. She jumped as the pilot slapped her butt firmly. Turning to face the pilot, she watched dumbfounded as the woman sported a toothy smile and flashed her a thumb’s up.

“Don’t mind her,” Skulls said quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you strapped in,” he bade while waving her into the inelegant spacecraft.

Spera followed him into the dimly lit ship and headed for the bench seat that he pointed to.

“Alright, put your helmet on. Do you know how?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Reaching behind her head, Spera pulled the metal catch forward around the collar of her flight suit. After a few awkward tries, her fingers caught the mechanism and she clumsily locked the clasp around her neck. Satisfied with this first step she grabbed the cumbersome helmet and dropped it over her head.

Hamish watched with mild amusement as the civilian nurse worked to fasten the helmet to her suit properly. After nearly a minute of watching her struggle, he stepped forward with his hands held high to get her attention. When her eyes were focused on his he reached forward and grabbed her helmet with both hands. Lifting it slightly, he turned the helmet five degrees to the right before lowering and it and gently centered it on Spera’s neck before locking it onto the collar with a quick twist to the left.

Grateful for his help, Spera took a cautionary breath in the now sealed suit. Only after confirming that the air supply was connected did she notice that she could hear the ambient noise inside the ship. “How can I hear you?” she asked curiously.

“The mic becomes live as soon as the helmet is sealed to the suit,” he answered easily.

“Oh, cool,” she paused for a moment. “Thanks for helping me with the helmet.”

“Yeah, sure,” he responded. He pointed to the bench behind her, directing her to sit down. “Let’s get you strapped in okay.”

Spera sat as instructed and closed her waist strap.

“You two done flirting?” Racetrack called out gruffly.

Hamish snorted in response before reaching across Spera’s body for the shoulder strap.

“I got this,” Spera responded more sharply than she intended, swatting his hands away for good measure. She finished attaching the safety harness a few moments later. She looked up at the amused pilot standing in front of her and declared satirically, “This isn’t my first time on a Raptor.”

“No worries,” he replied. He turned his head towards the pilots and announced, “We’re ready to go.” Moments later he stomped to the back of the ship and quickly strapped himself into his station.

Staring at the closed gull-wing door in front of her, Spera refused to let her mind wander as she sat on the uncomfortable bench.

“Yaggh!” she yelped in surprise as the ship suddenly lurched forward.

She turned her head to look through the forward screen, watching morbidly as the ship was slowly towed towards a waiting elevator. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing as the ship was slowly lifted from the hangar deck. Arriving on the flight deck their Raptor resumed its tedious crawl, finally stopping abruptly at a marked slot along the starboard bulkhead.

Racetrack called out moments later, “Raptor 5417 to Control. We are in position.”

A woman’s voice responded instantly, “Roger that Raptor 5417. I read you in slot Port-Alpha-Zero-Sixer.”

Nervousness was beginning to set in; Spera focused on the

pilot’s displays at the front, carefully noting the differing colored lights, switches, and myriad screens in a vain attempt to distract her mind.

A repeating metallic buzz called out, demanding everyone’s attention. Moments later, a familiar man’s voice calls out, “Action Station, Action Stations. Set Condition-One throughout the ship. This is not a drill.”

Racetrack called back easily, “Alright Spera, you ready?”

“I guess so,” Spera answered meekly.

“That’s my girl. Don’t worry, we’ll be okay,” Skulls called out encouragingly.

The man’s voice returned a minute later, “Attention all personnel, prepare for FTL jump.”

Spera steeled herself for the hyperspace jump.

The man’s voice sounded a third time, “FTL Jump in 5, 4, 3, 2,” he counted down ominously.

Spera squeezed her eyes closed as the ship slipped through time-space.

_'_ _Was it her imagination or did the effect in the flight bay seem more severe than inside the core of the ship,’_ she wondered?

She caught her breath as they emerged from the hyperspace jump. There was a strong vibration that she had not felt before. Her fears took over and she was afraid that the ship was coming apart. To her dismay the vibrations continued, finally her concerns found a voice and she warily asked, “What is that?”

“Those are the guns” Racetrack answered.

“Ours or theirs?” she asked.

Skulls turned to her, a serious expression on his face, “Those are ours. Trust me. You’ll know when it’s theirs.” He answered stoically.

Spera sat back in her seat, not at all comforted by Skull's answer. The chatter between the pilots and the Galactica buzzed in her ears like mosquitos on a summer day. She tried to tune them out, to numb her mind to the melee outside the ship. It didn't work, every few seconds an excited voice would flag her attention. Her mind wandered as the battle raged through her helmet’s speakers. With her eyes closed, she tried to piece together the conflict taking place outside in her mind. Bored, scared, and frustrated by not knowing what was going on, Spera leaned forward in her seat and turned to the pilots in the front of the plane.

Racetrack and Shark were sitting quietly, silently focused on their pilot brethren.

“So,” Spera started tentatively, “How long before we take off?”

Caught off guard, Racetrack turned to face the civilian nurse. “Hopefully, we don’t,” she answered directly.

“Uh, what do you mean?” Spera asked confused.

Racetrack’s face softened a little bit at her confusion. “Lot of metal out there. It’s safer in here,” she answered casually.

Still confused, but not wanting to sound ignorant, Spera asked carefully, “So, how does this work?”

An alarm sounded catching Racetrack’s attention before she could answer.

Shark turned to face Spera in her stead. “Pretty simple really, we sit on the flight deck and wait for a Krypter-Call. Hopefully, no one gets shot and we stay here for the whole battle.”

Her task complete, Racetrack turned back to Spera. “If we do get a Krypter, then we’ll launch, pick them up and get back here quick as we can.”

Spera grimaced slightly and tried not to think about the harrowing trip through the battlefield. “Okay, that sounds good,” she responded unconvincingly.

“That’s the attitude. Skulls, why don’t you finish getting her ready.” Racetrack called behind her.

“Ready for what?” Spera asked suspiciously.

Skulls was already standing in front of her holding a polymer cable.

Spera stood up cautiously and fixed him with a questioning grimace. Pointing at the cable, she nervously asked, “What is that?”

“It’s your tether,” he answered, plainly stating the obvious.

“What do I need a tether for?” Spera demanded.

“In case you have to do a spacewalk,” he answered soberly.

“What do you mean space-walk?” she stammered confused.

Spera watched in disbelief as Skulls clipped the cable to a composite grommet on the front of her flight-suit. She pulled on it, gently testing its strength.

He looked at her with an amused expression, “You’re ready, you can sit down now.”

Spera watched slack-jawed as he turned away and headed back to his station without saying another word. Slowly, Spera sat back down, quietly muttering, “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.”

Racetrack was shaking her head in annoyance. “You know we can hear you, right?” she said.

Spera turned to her, “It’s just,” she started, “This is just a bit much okay.” she pleaded.

Racetrack closed her eyes in frustration. “Look,” she said slowly, “This is the job.” 

"You know there’s a fracking battle out there,” Spera responded. 

“I am aware, yes.” Racetrack answered shortly.

“And why can’t Skulls get him?” she asked desperately. “I’m not trained for this, not really!” she pleaded.

“Get your shit together!” Racetrack snapped at her. 

A few moments passed before Skulls answered quietly, hoping to cool the rising tempers, “Because I have to grab the Viper, so we can bring it back to Galactica.”

Racetrack turned to face Spera again, “And because you’re the medic on this boat,” she added emotionlessly. With that Racetrack turned back to her console and began distracting herself with the controls. An awkward silence filled the cabin as the crew came to grip with their fears. 

After a few minutes, Racetrack turned back to the overwhelmed nurse. “Spera, none of us signed up for this. But, try not to worry. Skulls and I have done this more times than we can count, and we haven’t gotten killed, yet;” she offered gently with a forced smile.

“Right, I guess that’s something,” Spera conceded meekly. With nothing to do but wait, she leaned back and closed her eyes again, trying to think about something that would help her pass the time. The visage of the marine escort eventually took form and she found herself smiling as she let her mind wander to unlikely possibilities.

**_Viper 7298_ **

Derek breathed out, centering himself as his body adjusted to the high G-Forces as his Viper was catapulted into space. He turned his plane to the predetermined course and watched in satisfaction as the rest of the squadron formed on Apollo’s fighter.

The Vipers were quickly approaching the waiting Basestars. Ahead of them, Cylon Raiders screamed towards them with abandon. The experienced pilot watched with malicious pleasure as long-range flak guns exploded in the distance, culling the Cylons numbers. Derek’s expression turned to a scowl as he watched the fireworks; knowing that in a few moments the protective fire from the Galactica would contract, leaving the foolhardy pilots to face their enemies alone.

Apollo’s voice cut through the static, issuing last-minute instructions, and admonishing an over-eager pilot.

Derek looked over to his wingman on his port, verifying that he was in position.

“Green-Bean, Ace. Be ready to break on my mark,” he instructed the junior pilot.

“Roger that, Green-Bean. Let’s get ’em,” he answered confidently.

At this distance, the Raiders appeared as pinpricks through the cockpit. He switched his gaze from the canopy to his scanner and back again; mentally matching up the Raiders in front of him with those on his DRADIS screen. It would only be a few moments now.

Apollo’s voice called out again and the enemy was upon them. 

Derek waited a few seconds for the opposing fighters to commit, calling out with conviction when he saw the crease in their formation.

“Green-Bean, Ace. Now!” He pulled up hard and to the right on his stick as he commanded his wingman.

The two Vipers worked together, quickly pulling behind and making short work of two enemy fighters.

“Control to Green-Bean. Three Raiders at twenty-five by oh-seven C.B.D.R. with Galactica. Priority intercept.” The officer directed calmly.

“This is Green-Bean, intercepting priority targets.” He answered stoically. He flipped his plane, squashing the thruster plate to the floor as he pointed his Viper towards their quarry. They were on the Raiders within seconds, charging them at an oblique angle to their starboard. Green-Bean and Ace opened-up on them in unison, the rounds from their guns tearing into two of their victims without remorse. 

The third Raider turned to escape, desperately spinning away on a new heading.

In the heat of the battle, Derek flew on instinct. He adjusted his course slightly, bringing his Viper above the erratically flying Raider. At one with his plane, Derek rolled his Viper as the Cylon pitched left. His thumb pressed down on the firing control as he caught the enemy. He did not smile, instead, he closed his eyes and pulled his Viper away from the blossoming explosion of metal and gas.

Ace’s Viper sailed over the remains of the destroyed Raider, gracefully pulling alongside Green-Bean’s plane. He looked over his wing-man’s fighter, quickly checking for damage.

“Hey Green-Bean, you look good in that Mark-Seven.”

Derek turned towards the young pilot, “I look good in any plane, Ace. What of it?” he responded brashly.

“You should keep that one, I’ll take the Stealth off your hands,” he answered back, referring to the Mark-Six Viper that Derek typically flew, but was currently down for maintenance.

Derek laughed at his conceit, “Nah, that old-ass Mark-Two suits you just fine, Nugget.”

“Nugget?!” Ace called back in outrage. “Don’t lump me in with Starbuck’s pukes. I’ve got more kills than half the air-wing!” he protested.

“Simmer down, Ace,” he called back callously. “Now come on, we have tin-cans to kill.”

Joel answered by lighting his thrusters, his Viper launching itself towards the battle.

Green-Bean looked up from his DRADIS as his wingman rocketed away. “Dammit, Ace;” he cursed. The three engines on his Viper flared brilliantly in response, taking chase after his eager protégé.

Derek studied the DRADIS report as the two Vipers rushed towards a knot of enemy Raiders. There were six engaged in a deadly dance against a pair of Colonial fighters. Derek had nearly caught up to his wingman when his speakers sounded for his attention.

“Ace, Green-Bean. Thirty seconds to contact, I’m going straight up the gut!” he announced.

“Negative Ace, you’re gonna lead us into a cross,” he countered soberly. Derek adjusted the sensor read-out on his DRADIS computer. In a measured tone, he directed his partner, “Adjust course fifteen degrees down and five degrees to the left. We’ll cut underneath that fur-ball and give Thumper and Wally some cover.”

“No time Green-Bean! We’ll be through before they see us. They won’t know what hit ’em!” he called out excitedly.

Ace was correct about one thing, Derek admitted reluctantly, there wasn’t time to change course. He gritted his teeth as he followed the young pilot into the fray. A Raider to his left was angling toward Ace; he turned on it and filled the void between them with a hail of fire. The Raider exploded, momentarily blinding him. A flash of silver above and to his right appeared as his vision was restored. 

“Shit!” he exclaimed. He yanked the stick hard to the left, attempting to roll above the enemy’s line of fire. Too late, bullets exploded across the port and ventral surfaces of his Viper.

Derek ignored the audible alarms blaring through his speakers. The seasoned pilot wrestled with the bucking Viper’s controls. Groaning with the effort, he doggedly fought his damaged plane, slowly bringing it under his control.

Derek’s heart froze as green streaks of enemy tracers passed over his head from right to left. He turned towards the source, knowing that death would shortly follow.

Time stopped.

His eyes fixed on the silhouette of a Cylon Raider bearing down on him, determined on finishing him. He closed his eyes as the universe was consumed in a fiery holocaust. He braced himself in defiance of his fate as his Viper was pitched violently from the explosion.

Time resumed.

“Wally, Green-Bean! Green-Bean you still here?” the voice of the concerned pilot reached out.

Derek opened his eyes in shock. He watched in disbelief as a Viper streaked down from above him, diving below the smoldering remains of the Cylon Raider.

“Green-Bean, Wally. Yeah, I’m still here,” he answered warily. “Thanks, man,” he breathed in relief.

Derek watched as Wally’s Viper, now paired with Thumper, curled away, and made their way back to the fight. With the danger past, Derek only now began to acknowledge the pain screaming through his knee and back.

**_Viper 2115_ **

Driven by guilt, Ace circled back, searching in a panic for his downed partner. He watched helplessly as the surviving Raider lined up to attack his abandoned wingman. He was too far away as he angled towards the marauder, and he swore upon the gods that he would avenge his mentor. A moment later a wave of shame and relief washed over him as he watched Wally blast the enemy from the sky.

“Krypter, Krypter, Krypter.” Green-Bean called out moments later. “This is Viper 7298 declaring an emergency. Request immediate pick-up.”

“Control to Viper 7298, message received. We are dispatching an S.A.R. bird to your location.”

“Ace to Control, I’m on station and will maintain cover.”

“Roger that, Ace. Appreciate the assist,” the controller responded.

Ace cut a tight circle around Derek’s fighter, turning his head to look over the damage. The entire port side of the fighter had been hulled and the engine was shredded to ribbons. At least there weren’t any fires he thought solemnly. His survey complete, he brought his Viper to a stop in a covering position above and behind his partner.

“Ace, Green-Bean. Hold tight, the cavalry is on its way,” he called out, his voice wracked with guilt.

“Just be sure to keep my ass clear,” Derek answered in a strained voice.

“Roger that, boss” Ace replied. With nothing more to say, he began scanning the sky and his DRADIS for the enemy.

**_Viper 7298_ **

With his Viper’s course steadied, Derek took a moment to look out of the canopy to get his bearings. Satisfied that his course would carry him away from the main action, he turned his attention to his instrument console. He sighed in disgust as he surveyed the panel. Most of the gauges were too damaged to function and showed blank, a few still reporting nominal conditions were illuminated in green. He focused on the remaining monitors, all of which were bathed in blood-red. His fingers flew across the keypad, addressing each highlighted alert. In short order, Derek shut-down the main engines, locked out a failing fuel pump and bypassed several port side reaction control thrusters. His main area of concern was a fuel leak from a transfer line that fed the main port engine. After a couple of minutes, Derek was able to work around the mangled plumbing and stop the leak. Slightly relieved, he sat back, now confident that his plane wasn’t about to blow up.

**_Raptor 5417_ **

An electric shot went through the crew of the Raptor as the Krypter call sounded through their helmets. Racetrack’s fingers were dancing across the console as she connected her plane to the telemetry from Green-Bean’s Viper. 

“Racetrack to Control, my board is green, requesting clearance for pick-up,” she called out.

“This is Control; Raptor 5417 you are cleared for immediate departure. Go bring our boy home.”

“Roger that Control. Raptor 5417 departing now,” Racetrack responded. The ship was already moving, heading swiftly towards the front of the flight pod and open space.

“Racetrack to Green-Bean, we are 6-0 seconds out, what is your condition?” the pilot asked plainly, as if out for a Sunday stroll.

“This is Green-Bean, Racetrack my bird is powered down.” He took a pained breath before continuing, “Suit intact, I wrenched my back and left knee pretty good. You get me a sled; I’ll make my way to you; over.”

Spera's stomach tightened into a fist as she recognized the pilot's name. She turned to gaze out the canopy, hoping that the tranquility of space would calm her. Instead, the stars outside began to spin as if in a kaleidoscope, her stomach flipping with them as Racetrack weaved the Raptor towards the injured pilot. The young nurse squeezed her eyes tightly as the ship twisted and turned through a set of acrobatic maneuvers, quickly bringing them towards the damaged Viper.

"Spera, get ready, we're about to make our pick-up."

"I don't have a choice, do I?" she answered in a deflated tone.

Racetrack sighed in aggravation. Without turning her attention from the action outside the ship she began reviewing the mission. "Spera, this is a bang-bang deal. You have a power sled and you'll be tethered, there is no chance that we will lose you. The whole op will take two minutes max. Once the cabin is decompressed, I'll open the door and you jump out. The pilot will be EVA, all you gotta do is grab him, put him in the sled, and bring him back. Easy."

Spera turned her gaze towards the canopy, scanning the void for any sign of Derek's plane. "Alright, let's do this," she declared bravely. 

Spera gasped in fear a moment later as Racetrack pulled the Raptor into a sudden flip and drove the ship down before bringing them to a sudden stop.

"Racetrack to Control. We are in position, beginning S.A.R. retrieval now."

"Control to Racetrack. Acknowledge S.A.R. recovery, notify when you are Returning To Base."

"Alright, Skulls. Let's move." Racetrack called back, the adrenaline coursing through her veins was evident in her voice.

“Venting cabin atmosphere to tanks,” Skulls called out from behind.

Spera waited quietly, carefully watching as the Cabin Pressure Monitor above the door changed from green to red as the sensor registered the absence of oxygen. Moments later, the large door on the side of the craft slowly lifted open, exposing the crew to the empty void of space.

Spera pulled again on the tether attached to her suit and began slowly making her way towards the open door of the Raptor. She unlocked the sled and pulled it from the frame next to the ship's door. With the flick of a switch the scared nurse unfolded the sled and powered it up; her eyes darted over the display quickly confirming that it was operating properly. She settled behind it and cautiously reached forward for the controls. Muscle memory from EVA trainings, both before and after the fall took over, and she was easily flying the powered basket towards the pilot tethered to the crippled space fighter.

“How ya’ doing Derek?” she asked as reached the stranded pilot.

Derek looked into her mask, “Spera?” he asked confused.

Spera answered with a feigned casualness while carefully positioning herself to assist the pilot. “Yeah, I got nothing better to do, I thought I’d go sight-seeing.”

“Racetrack to Spera. Quit your yapping and get back on this boat already;” the pilot barked through her speakers.

“Yes, Ma’am;” she called back.

Spera turned her attention to Derek, who was now situated directly above the sled. “Alright Green-Bean, let’s get you in here.” 

With her hand on the controls, she gently depressed the altitude toggle and slowly brought the sled up until Derek was resting on top. Thirty seconds later Spera had Derek strapped into the chair, the computer on his flight suit transmitting his vitals to the sled. 

Even in the middle of battle, the overwhelming nothingness of space began to affect the young nurse. Spera’s nerves began to relax as she and Green-Bean transited back to the Raptor. She took a few seconds to look at the heavens surrounding her and to her mild surprise, she found herself in awe of the beauty and peace of the black which surrounded her. 

“It’s something out here, isn’t it?” he offered.

Spera could hear the strain in his voice from the pain that he felt. “Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it;” she replied, looking down at him with an encouraging smile.

Shark was waiting for the two of them at the cargo door, he reached for the front of the sled and quickly pulled them inside. Once secured in the ship, Spera double-checked the sled’s connection to her station. She looked over Derek carefully, his face was pale, and he was breathing faster than normal. She looked over his vitals; his heart rate and blood pressure were slightly elevated, no doubt due to the injuries to his back, hip, and knee. Of greater import; his oxygen saturation, temperature, and pulse were all strong and regular. She leaned over to him and squeezed his shoulder gently, “You’re going to be alright, Derek.” she assured him.

He nodded and was about to respond when Skulls called out instead.

“Racetrack, Viper is secure. Let’s get out of here.”

“Right-On,” she called back. The Raptor shot forward before pulling a hard-upward turn to starboard. “Raptor 5417 to Control; pick-up complete. Returning to base.”

The woman’s voice responded, “Control to Raptor 5417. Copy Return To Base, I read you inbound, ETA 65 seconds.”

Spera sat back against the bench as they sped back to the Galactica, comforted with the knowledge that her friend hadn’t suffered permanent injuries. Four minutes later, she closed her eyes and breathed a held sigh of relief as their Raptor came to a final and sudden stop, safely secured in its stark maintenance bay.

Summer and two orderlies were waiting for them in the hangar. Together, the med techs and Spera slid Derek out of the plane and carefully transferred him to the waiting gurney. Spera turned her attention to Derek’s Viper, which was sitting on a low trailer next to the Raptor. She tried to suppress a grimace as she surveyed the wrecked fighter but was betrayed by her raw emotions. 

Derek was looking over his Viper too, noting Spera’s demeanor he turned to her, “That’s twice the Gods’ have been looking out for me.” Derek quietly stated. He paused a moment as he considered his fortune, “Funny thing, you've been there both times.”

“Yeah, you're definitely luckier than your Viper” one of the maintenance techs lamented.

Spera and Derek ignored the mechanic, instead, they shared the moment in silence.

“Nurse Harris,” Summer called out, pulling Spera out of her reverie. She grabbed the chart off the front of the gurney and began reviewing the notes. The charge nurse turned to Spera a few moments later, “Anything you need to add to the notes?”

“No ma’am” she answered instantly.

“Okay good,” Summer replied. “We’ve got it from here.” She turned to the orderlies standing next to her, “Come 'on, let’s go!” she directed them. Summer grabbed the cart and led it quickly towards an elevator at the end of the compartment. 

Spera turned to head back to the Raptor, she hoped that they wouldn’t need to rescue any more pilots, but she felt more confident now that they had successfully rescued Green-Bean. She was climbing into the shuttle when suddenly the ship lurched violently below her. Spera stumbled on the wing step before crashing heavily onto the deck. She picked herself up, “Was that one of theirs?” she asked hesitantly.

The three pilots shared a concerned look. Racetrack finally responded, “Yeah, that was theirs’ alright. A big one, from the feel of it.”

Everyone in the Raptor turned as the speakers called out for their attention a moment later. “Apollo, Control. Whatever that thing is, it just crashed on the Starboard flight pod.” He paused a moment to compose himself before continuing his report. “Repeat Cylon Craft has crashed on Starboard flight pod. We’ve got an explosive decompression in the flight pod. No explosion, no fire. Repeat no fire.”

Spera looked to the other pilots, intently watching their expressions. They looked worried she thought.

A woman’s voice called out from the C.I.C. “All Vipers Return To Base, repeat all Vipers, Return To Base.”

All three pilots seemed to deflate at the last announcement. Spera looked to Racetrack, who was smiling for the first time since the mission began. 

“See Spera, nothing to it!” she called out congratulatorily. 

Spera stuck her tongue out in response. “If I ever have to do that again, it will be too damn soon!” she declared. She pointed to her helmet, “Do I need to put this on?” she asked meekly.

“No, we're done.” Skulls answered, relief evident in his voice.

Spera turned and watched as he took his helmet off. She left the helmet on the bench next to her and tried to close her mind to everything around her. The mission was over, she thought, but the steady buzz from the anti-aircraft guns continued and was now joined by a cacophony of violent thumps and scrapes as the Vipers crashed to the deck above them. Part of her worried that the ceiling would collapse from the abuse. After a minute, the pounding slowed and finally stopped as the last fighter made it aboard. A moment after that, the incessant buzz of the guns finally ceased. She tried to enjoy the silence, but it ended too.

A man’s voice called out, she thought his name was Felix and that he was a senior officer, “4,3,2,1, Jump.”

Spera breathed out as they emerged from the jump and took an anxious breath. She looked back at Skulls, Shark, and finally Racetrack, desperately searching for a sign of success or failure. Their stony expressions revealed nothing. The wait was almost unbearable. 

Commander Tigh’s voice called out. “Attention all hands. We have found the fleet. Well-done. Department heads after-action reports by 21:00. This is the X.O. That is all.”

Spera smiled brightly and clapped her hands together in joy at the news. She reveled in the celebrations that were taking place outside the Raptor. She closed her eyes in relief and fully immersed herself in the euphoria that she hadn’t felt since before the fall.

“Let’s get out of here. Drinks in the mess at 21:30.” Racetrack called out a few moments later. The brash pilot looked at Spera with a determined expression, “Don’t be late, Harris” she directed the young nurse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Summer, an ICU nurse that left us far too early.


	5. Daybreak

**_Battlestar Galactica; Sick Bay. Day 53_ **

Derek grimaced as he shifted slightly on the small adjustable bed. His back hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to the throbbing in his knee. He tossed the squadron roster on the end table next to him in frustration. Since the injuries to his knee and hip, he had taken on much of the administrative workload needed to keep the squadron running. Currently, he was wading through a stack of status reports for both aircraft and pilots, struggling to put together a workable squadron rotation. With the loss of two more planes plus three pilots killed, one AWOL, and himself injured his task seemed impossible. At least Starbuck and Flyboy hadn’t taken their Vipers with them he thought darkly.

He closed his eyes as he pictured the cocky pilot. Sam, his real name, was a good stick and not someone that could be easily replaced. In his last battle Flyboy had wasted four Raiders and returned to the ship unscathed; only to get gutted in the hangar by a Centurion a few minutes after landing. He wanted the loss of his comrades to be more than a numbers game, but the stack of papers to his left reminded him otherwise. Silently, he acknowledged that it was a game they were losing.

Derek internalized his morbid chain of thought. Why did he survive, but others like Flyboy, Karma, and Crashdown die? Not only was his Viper shot out from under him, but afterward he was strapped in a gurney while Cylons rampaged through the ship. Was this survivor’s guilt, he wondered? Shit, he didn’t know what he felt, he was tired, he was ready to quit. But he knew that was not an option. He had to continue fighting because if he quit more would die.

Derek turned his attention to the tray of beige formless food in front of him. He may not know what the in the hell was going on in his mind, but he did know that he needed to eat. He grabbed a fork and glumly picked at it. Derek closed his eyes as he mechanically chewed. It was bland and hard to swallow, so he imagined that the brown mess was anything more palatable than the supper he had been served.

“Time for your meds’, sir” a stern feminine voice called out.

He pushed the tray away from him and turned his attention to the woman in front of him. He looked at her I.D. badge, “Nurse Kulani, I’m fine.” he responded morosely. 

“Name’s Summer, Captain. And it’s not for the pain, we need to keep the swelling down.” 

Their eyes met, and it was obvious that she was not going to be refused.

“Come on, bottoms up,” she ordered, handing him a small plastic cup and four, one-centimeter-long brown pills.

“Doctor’s order?” he asked sarcastically.

“Frack the doctor,” she shot back. “My orders are the ones that matter.” she finished smugly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he put the water on the tray before popping the pills in his mouth, swallowing them without the drink.

She looked at him with an amused expression.

“I need the water for the food more than the pills,” he answered mirthfully.

“Whatever,” she replied before turning and walking away.

Alone again, Derek grabbed the tray and resumed eating his meal. He felt himself getting sleepy as he finished eating, no doubt due to the drugs that the nurse made him take. The pain finally blunted he pushed the now empty tray away before closing his eyes and surrendered to the tiredness that pulled at him. 

Derek didn’t know how long he had slept, but there was no doubt that he was feeling much better than before. He looked at the clock on the other side of the bed and sighed in regret. The funeral for the three pilots was in half an hour. He looked at his leg, which was immobilized in a large and cumbersome metal brace, and wondered how, or if, he would be able to put on his dress blues. He had just finished buttoning his tunic when the privacy curtain opened revealing the tall figure of his wingman, Ace, standing outside. 

“Don’t just stand there,” he called out to the young pilot. 

Joel hesitantly stepped into the small room, his eyes focused on the floor in self-doubt and guilt. 

He looked up a moment later, slowly looking over his injured mentor. “You ready?” he asked quietly.

“Sure, as long as I don’t need to wear pants,” he answered sarcastically.

“Don’t see why you would?” he responded. “Hold on a sec,” he added, before walking out of the room, leaving the curtain open behind him. He returned a few moments later pushing a wheelchair to the side of the bed.

Derek stood on his right leg and carefully lowered himself into the chair. He waited as Joel grabbed a clean navy blanket and placed it over his lap, covering his bare legs.

“Good enough, let’s go.” his wingman declared. He stepped behind the injured pilot and spun him around before quickly pushing him into the corridor and out of sickbay.

Joel didn’t say a word as he pushed Derek through the corridors of the immense warship. The awkwardness of their journey only increased as they turned left and right down various causeways on their way to the ceremony. 

Derek looked up at the ceiling as Joel pushed him into a lift, quickly spinning him to face the closing door. “Talk to me Joel,” he directed the younger pilot. “It’s gonna eat you up if you don’t.”

Joel looked at Derek for the first time since he picked him up at Sick Bay.

“Derek, man...” he started. “I just,” he trailed off.

Derek could feel his face hardening as he tried to make peace with his emotions. “Spit it out and drive-on,” he directed a little harsher than intended.

Joel looked to the ceiling for a moment before focusing on Derek. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. He took a quick breath and began unburdening himself to the older pilot. “I’m sorry, Derek. I fracked up and nearly got you killed.” He paused for a moment, the raw emotions nearly overwhelming him. 

Derek focused on his wingman, “It’s combat, Joel. Shit happens fast out there and sometimes... Sometimes things go sideways.” He paused, hoping to give Ace a moment. “There’s nothing to forgive. It could have happened to any of us” he stated plainly.

Joel closed his eyes and shook his head in defiance, “Not you,” he replied. He started again before Green-Bean could respond. “You saw what was gonna happen, tried to warn me off. But did I listen? No. You could have been killed. And that’s on me.” he lamented. 

Derek sat in his chair, looking up at the young officer. Joel’s self-recrimination was starting to overwhelm the young pilot and if Derek didn’t stop the downward spiral soon, he feared that Ace’s confidence would be permanently damaged. 

“Tigh’s right!” Joel declared before Derek could respond. “I should be the one in the chair, not you.” He took a steadying breath, “He nearly took my wings, probably should have.”

Derek’s ire flashed at the mention of the executive officer, “Frack that hypocritical drunk!” Derek took a second to cool down, “Ace, you’re a damn good stick; better than half the air-wing. Hell, you’re a better pilot than I am.” Needing to finish the conversation he leaned forward to stop the lift.

He spun his wheelchair around to face the young pilot. “Ace,” he started stoically, “The only difference between you and me is experience. Do you think you’re the first pilot to misread a DRADIS return?” He paused a moment, letting his preamble settle on his protégé. “I promise you, every pilot on this ship, Starbuck, Apollo, even that son-of-a-bitch Tigh, has made the same exact mistake that you did. The difference is that when we made it, we were in peacetime and there weren’t any gods-damned bullets flying through the black!” He waited for Joel to react, hoping for a sign that he had gotten through to the headstrong pilot.

Joel’s lips curled in a predatory smile as he recovered from Derek’s passionate response. “Good speech, Cap. I didn’t know you had that in you,” he stated sarcastically.

Derek couldn’t help but smile at the sudden change in Joel’s attitude. “Did you hear anything I said?” he asked in mock exasperation.

“I heard you admit that I’m a better pilot than you are,” he answered coolly.

“I was just trying to make you feel better about yourself. I promise you, when I get out of this chair, I am going to smoke your ass.” Derek boasted.

“We’ll see, old man.” Joel bandied back.

Satisfied that Joel’s insufferable arrogance was well on its way to recovery, Derek spun around and re-started the lift. In a few moments, the doors parted and a now renewed Ace began pushing him spiritedly down the long causeway towards the ceremony.

They arrived at the chapel which had been built into the far wall of the starboard flight pod. Derek looked over the crowd, quickly recognizing most of the pilots as well as a few bridge officers. With a nod, he indicated to Joel that he wanted to pay his respects to the fallen pilots first. The pair stopped in front of the three caskets a moment later. He shook his head in disgust as he read the names, Lt. Alex “Crashdown” Quartaro, Lt. Samuel “Flyboy” Irvine, and Lt. Cohen “Karma” Baker. As they lingered at the dais, Derek took time to remember each pilot individually. With a wry smile, he remembered Alex’s inability to take a joke, Sam’s love to set pranks, which more often than not seemed to target Alex, and Cohen’s gentle nature and the grace with which he had accepted their new reality.

Spera smiled silently as she saw Derek arrive, it always felt good to see patients on the road to recovery. She watched discreetly as he spent a few moments with the victims before being wheeled to the nave in the ad-hoc chapel. It was at this moment that she noticed how the crew was organized by rank and role. The pilots sat to the right of the bridge officers, who were front and center. To the left representatives of the civilian government sat respectfully, quietly talking amongst themselves. The small craft mechanics, anchored by Chief Petty Officer Tyrol, sat behind the pilots. Spera realized that the medical personnel were no different, as they were sitting behind the government officials and next to engineering officers in the center. The sections behind them were filled with other military sections, and finally, the furthest rows were manned by civilians and the press. 

Colonel Tigh made his way to the pulpit, an air of malevolence following him like a shadow. Setting his speech on the dais, he glared at the assembled guests, daring anyone present to challenge him. The moment passed and he looked down at his notes, fiercely gripping the sides of the podium. Spera subconsciously braced herself as the Executive Officer began speaking. His tone was harsh and angry, he berated not just their enemy the Cylons, but the media, the politicians, and anyone who dared speak against the military. It seemed he even censured the gods. He spoke of the officers that had been taken too soon, how they were martyrs, and extolled that in time humanity would have their revenge. His speech complete, he looked up from his notes, boldly declaring, “So Say We All.” 

Derek surveyed the compartment, studying the crowd and their expressions as they stood up to leave. He felt the chair turn as Joel wordlessly began to push him to the aisle. Derek looked up at the young pilot, noticing that he too shared the same expression of shock and dismay that the audience held.

“Well, that was something,” Joel said morbidly.

“Yeah,” Derek answered simply.

The crowd began to break up, Joel waited for a gap to open before pushing Derek towards the exit. The two exchanged pleasantries with a few crew members as they made their way to the reception which was being held in the adjacent hangar module. 

Derek had not been in Starboard Hangar Module 5 since the first days after the fall. Prior to the Cylons' return, this part of the ship had been converted into an exhibition hall for the museum’s aircraft wing. He, along with the other pilots and deck crew had spent the next few weeks stripping this and the adjoining compartments to their bulkheads, claiming anything valuable as spare parts for the still functioning port flight pod. The thought of this room being used as a reception area made him cringe.

The space was barren; only a fraction of the overhead lights remained. The dangling power conduits which hung empty from the ceiling gave the room a dim and gloomy feel. Tables and chairs were spread throughout and at the front three long tables were set up with food and drink. Lastly, he noticed the flags of the Thirteen Colonies, hanging lifelessly along the far wall.

“Hungry?” he asked, motioning to the buffet line.

Joel looked down, “Yeah, better get it before it’s gone.” he answered distantly.

The two made their way through the line with Derek generously filling plates for both. The quality and quantity of the food at the buffet greatly exceeded the typical restricted rationing that plagued the fleet and should have buoyed his flagging spirits. But sadly, his countenance remained anchored to the decking, his mind still incapable of processing the past few days' events. Their plates full, Joel quickly wheeled his mentor towards a table along the right side of the room.

A chorus of catcalls greeted the pair as Joel slid Derek into space cleared for him at the table. 

“Hey guys,” Derek called out easily as he looked over the table of pilots.

The pilots quickly settled into an easy banter. Together again, they shared stories of the fallen, boasted their conquests, and roasted each other mercilessly over any perceived faults. Before they were ready, their meals finished and the kegs of ale tapped, the guests began filtering out.

Derek pushed himself away from the table and turned his chair towards the exit when a hand grabbed him from behind.

“Derek,” a familiar woman’s voice called out.

Derek spun the chair to find Nurse Harris behind him. “Hi, Spera. I figured you’d be back on the BT-12 by now.”

“Yeah,” she paused a moment, “I wanted to pay my respects,” she added quietly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Derek responded, “Food and beer was pretty good too”, he chuckled.

“Yeah, that too,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. Spera turned to Derek’s chair. “How ya’ feeling?

“Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but I’ll survive,” he answered cavalierly.

“You tore your ACL it’s supposed to hurt,” she answered flippantly. Spera looked to the hatch for a second, before turning back to Derek. “Well, it’s good seeing you. I’ve got a shuttle to catch back home,” she stated hesitantly.

“Good seeing you too, Spera.” He paused a moment, watching her walk away, “Hey Spera,” he called out. “Thanks again.”

**_Battlestar Galactica; Port Hangar_ **

Spera dropped her bag in surprise as she saw Rebecca standing in front of one of the BT-12's shuttles.

“Hey kid, you ready to go home?” she asked happily.

“Yes, yes I am,” Spera replied. She closed the distance between the two and wrapped her captain in a heartfelt hug. “I didn’t think I was going to see any of you again,” she said quietly.

“Enough of that, come on.” her Captain answered, smiling warmly.

Minutes later, Spera’s emotions began to get the better of her as they approached her home, the freighter Bill Thurston-12. She was mostly composed as they landed in the starboard landing bay. Stepping out of the shuttle, she found the entire crew waiting for her. Dumbfounded, she stopped in her tracks as her new family began clapping and cheering her return. Completely overwhelmed, she barely reacted as one of the crew insistently tried to push something in her hand. Looking down, she grabbed the bottle of Ambrosia and brought it to her lips. The cool liquid burned as it slid down her throat, warming her body from within. With a smile, she handed the bottle back to the crewman before wrapping her arms around him in a ferocious hug. “Thanks, Camp.”

The crew surrounded her and together they made their way out of the hangar, slowly moving through the narrow corridors like a giant snake. In the galley, the party seemed to last for hours as the crew celebrated not just the return of their wayward nurse, but the relief they felt for surviving the last few days.

Eventually, Spera made it to her quarters, where she found her bunk waiting for her just as she had left it. Laying down she closed her eyes and had her first restful night in what seemed like a lifetime, even if it had been only five days.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank you for taking the time to read my story. Hopefully, you enjoyed it. I am working on the next installment, and am looking forward to sharing it with everyone, hopefully in the near future.


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